Filter Free
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock is on some heavy duty pain meds that remove his conversational filters. What will come out of his mouth now? Sherlolly. Based on a prompt from a kind reader, mychakk


"Oh, god, not again!" the detective said, barely out loud, as he leaned up against the filthy wall of the even filthier alley, and slid slowly down to the ground, clutching at his side. He had felt the knife go in, and out, and now he was feeling the wetness which was oozing out from between his fingers. He knew it wasn't life-threatening, probably, but it hurt like hell! He could already hear John Watson on his mobile calling for assistance, and soon the doctor was kneeling by his side, examining the wound, and muttering encouragements.

"How do you feel, Sherlock? Much pain?"

"It feels, John, like someone decided to forego the voodoo doll, and stick the pins right in me! How do you think I feel!", Sherlock Holmes almost screamed his response. Well, not exactly screamed, for, if truth be told, he was having a bit of a struggle gathering the strength to scream.

"There's quite a bit of blood, mate, but it don't think he hit anything really vital."

"Are you kidding, John. It has positively killed my best purple shirt. Molly loves this shirt, you know. I shall have to buy another…", the injured man managed to get out just before he passed out to the sound of the approaching ambulance.

His best friend, and doctor, muttered as he held his hand to the wound. "Who are you kidding, mate. You've got at least two other in the exact color. You wear one every time you want a big favor from Molly. And it always works, too…" The paramedics arrived, and John Watson quickly filled them in on the circumstances of the detective's injury, and helped prepare him for transport to the A and E.

It was hours later when Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective and life size voodoo doll, was slowly coming back to consciousness, having endured emergency surgery to repair internal injuries caused by the knife wound. John, his personal physician, was consulting with the surgeon regarding post-operative pain management. This could be a touchy area with Sherlock Holmes, given his past history as a drug abuser. The surgeon was recommending an experimental pain medication, not morphia based, in order, hopefully, to avoid any dependency issues. But there were other issues with this new medication, not of the physically debilitating variety, but more of a psychological nature. The drug tended to remove any filters on conversation and social interaction. That is to say, much like the occasional stroke victim or dementia patient, patients on this medication tended to say whatever popped into their head. John didn't see much of a problem with this, however.

"Look, Dr. Flavell, you just don't know Sherlock Holmes. He really doesn't have many filters on his conversations as it is. His mouth tends to be a lethal weapon. I don't see how it could be much worse!"

"Of course, you know him much better than most people, from what I've read in the papers," the surgeon gave John an understanding smile, and a wink, "Not that there's anything wrong with that…"

"Not gay!" John said emphatically, for perhaps the thousandth time.

"As you say," Dr. Flavell continued. "But even people who tend to be relatively honest in their interactions with others…"

"Relatively? Ha!"

"Even these people have things that they wouldn't think of saying, that they would prefer to keep to themselves. While Mr. Holmes is on this medication, I would suggest that his visitors be limited to only his closest friends, people who could be made aware of, and who would understand his condition, without taking offence."

"Okay, okay. But I think you're overestimating Sherlock's current supply of such social filters, and underestimating his friends' ability to withstand such barbs, doctor." John chuckled at a recent memory. "He once told me I had the intellect of a sea urchin, but lacked its charm! And meant every word of it, at least at the time."

"Well, I'll leave him in your care, Dr. Watson, and I wish you the best!"

John watched as the man in surgical garb walked quickly away, and wondered to himself just how bad it could be. He was to find out soon enough as Mycroft Holmes found his way to Sherlock's room, having been informed by John of his injury, and current condition. The detective was still dozing as his brother poked his head in the door.

"How is he, John?", Mycroft said with genuine concern as he looked down at his younger brother, lying still in the hospital bed.

"He'll be fine, Mycroft. Some damage to his liver, but it's been repaired. He'll have to stay here for a couple of days, but he should make a quick and complete recovery. I should warn you about something, though…" But before he could complete his thought, Sherlock opened his eyes to see his big brother standing next to his bedside.

"Mycroft, I am so happy to see you. I don't tell you that enough, do I? Have you lost weight? You're looking well!"

Mycroft Holmes' eyes widened, as he turned to John Watson and said, "Was there an accompanying head wound, John, that you neglected to mention?"

John was chuckling as he replied, "No, it's his pain meds. No filters. Says whatever pops into his head." When Mycroft snickered in his direction, he added, "It's going to be an interesting few days, Mycroft."

"Indeed it is, Dr. Watson!" Mycroft Holmes was fingering his mobile, and after saying, "Just a moment," into the device, he handed it to his brother, saying, "Someone would like to speak to you, brother mine."

"Hello," Sherlock said cautiously into his brother's mobile. Then, "Mummy!"

"It hurts, Mummy! Remember when you used to take care of me when I got hurt. I miss that. I miss you!" The grown man was now sounding more like a child as he almost pouted into the mobile.

"No, Mummy, I didn't hit my head. Why do you ask?"

"Mummy, will you come to take care of me? And run your fingers through my hair? Is Pappa there? I want to speak to Pappa." There was a short pause. "Pappa! I got hurt. Again. I miss you. Don't let Mummy get too upset, will you? You know how she is. Tell her I love her. I forgot. Oh, and you, too!"

"No, Pappa, my head is fine!"

"Mycroft will take care of me. He always does. He's the best brother. Actually, he's my only brother. And I blame you and Mummy for that, you know. Another brother would have been nice. And a sister, too. I suppose it's way too late to consider that, though. But Mycroft is all I need, really. I love him, too. And you. And Mummy!"

"When will you come? Tomorrow. Good. Will you bring me some fresh honey from your bees, Pappa. I love those damned bees, too! Yes. Goodbye. I will see you tomorrow. Here's Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes took his mobile from his brother's hand. "No, Pappa, nothing permanent. Evidently it's a side effect of his pain medication, so you and Mummy better get here as soon as possible to take advantage of his condition. I'll send a car for you in the morning. Goodbye."

The "British Government" looked down at his baby brother with an indulgent smirk. "Well, Sherlock, tomorrow should be very interesting, indeed."

Sherlock, intelligent man that he was, was, of course, beginning to realize that his current behavior was not up to his usual standard of detachment, arrogance, and smugness. "Is somebody going to tell me what's going on, or must I continue to humiliate myself for your enjoyment!"

"It's the meds, chum. They've affected your sense of inhibition. You tend to say anything that pops into your head. " John Watson was chuckling as he explained his condition to his friend. "Your surgeon assumed that you'd be offending people right and left. He didn't know that you do that every day! This affectionate side is a real surprise, Sherlock…"

"John, I want a 'No Visitors' sign posted immediately! I can't have people see…"

But they were interrupted when DI Greg Lestrade entered without knocking. "They told me I'd find you here. How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

"Like someone tried to make pate out of my liver while it was still inside me, Greg."

"You must be hurt. You actually remembered my name!"

"I always remember your name. I just like to annoy you! Have you caught the miscreant who skewered me yet?"

"Yeah, we tracked him down. Anderson is working on the forensics…"

"Good. I'm sure he'll do an excellent job."

"Sherlock…?"

"He's a more than competent forensics man, Greg. I don't tell him that often enough. His biggest fault is falling prey to that bitch Sally Donavan, wouldn't you say? He really ought to go back to his wife. He loves her, she loves him. He deserves to be happy. Everyone deserves to be happy."

Lestrade looked at John with concern. "Is there something wrong with his head?" But John just shook his head, "No."

"Bloody hell, I'm doing it again! Maybe I should just put up with the pain!"

"Not a good idea, Sherlock. Someone just put a gaping hole in your liver…"

"Not for the first time, John. You do remember the bullet put there by…"

"Yes, yes, Sherlock, by that bastard in Magnussen's office. We remember. Let's not talk about that, okay? You need to focus on recovering, right?" John was starting to shoo everyone out of the room, when Mrs. Hudson made her appearance.

"Mrs. Hudson, how did you get here?"

"Greg was kind enough to give me a lift, Sherlock. I haven't ridden in a police car since those days with my husband. I must say, Scotland Yard is much more polite than those Florida policemen, dear."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, but, of course, this time you were not under arrest, were you?"

"Technically, I was never under arrest in Florida, dear. Merely a 'person of interest'."

"Well, you are rather interesting!" Sherlock said with an affectionate smile.

John then interrupted, saying. "I'm sorry to say this, folks, but you really have to leave. He's only been out of surgery for a few hours, and he has to get some rest. Come back tomorrow, if you want. I'm sure he'll feel better then."

"No! Don't come back. Nobody come back. I'll be fine. I'll see you when I get home."

"Sherlock, dear, of course I'll come see you tomorrow. I'll bring you some of those biscuits you love so much. The ginger ones…" Mrs Hudson barely got the words out.

"I hate those things!"

"Really, Sherlock, you always told me how much you like them…"

"The taste like something left in a pasture by a very sick cow, Mrs. H. I didn't want to hurt your feelings…"

"Don't be silly. I know they taste like shite. Why do you think I always give them away! They're not my recipe, you see. They're my cousin Effie's, and she always was a lousy cook. She buried three husbands, you know. I think two died of starvation. She may have poisoned the third."

"Then why did you feed them to me?!"

"Well, you must admit you tend to be a bit peculiar, Sherlock. You told me you liked them. Why would you say that?"

"I love you like a second mother, woman, and I didn't want to hurt your feelings!"

The elderly woman looked over at John Watson and asked, sotto voce, "Has he hurt his head, too?"

"There is nothing wrong with my head!"

"I just wish you'd said something sooner, dear. They stink up my whole kitchen when I bake!"

"Well, you can throw the recipe away now, Mrs. Hudson…"

"Oh, no, I think not. I did promise to make a batch of biscuits for Mrs. Grayson's tea party."

"I thought you hated Mrs. Grayson?"

"Not hate, dear. Just strongly dislike. If I hated her I'd use the recipe Cousin Effie served to husband number three!", the woman replied with a twinkle in her eye, and a wink. Hopefully she was joking.

Everyone was soon ushered from the room, and John settled down to make a bit of conversation before leaving for the evening. "I suppose Mary will want to stop in tomorrow, Sherlock."

"Absolutely not, John! No more visitors. I shall have put up with my parents. I suppose I will humiliate myself with expressions of affection, and boyhood recollections. Mycroft will be beside himself with joy! Which is fine, considering all I've put him through all these years." Sherlock turned his head a bit and heaved a great sigh. "There I go again. I know this is going to sound bad, but I really could use some morphine, John. All this sharing is becoming unbearable."

"So, you don't want Mary to drop in?"

"Please, no! She did shoot me, John. In the same liver which is currently trying to heal itself once again. How many lives does a liver have, by the way? As many as Molly's cat?" He smiled to himself. "Anyway, while I have forgiven her, and I like her, and I know you love her, I do not want to risk her wrath by saying something nasty about her habit of trying to kill me…"

"It was hardly a habit, mate. Just the one time…"

"One time will suffice, John. Please spare her feelings, and my liver, by keeping her away from me for the next few days!"

"Done, Sherlock. How about Molly. I'm not sure she even knows about your, ah, accident…"

"It was hardly an accident. I believe he quite deliberately punctured my internal organs…"

"I could call her now?"

"Under no circumstances are you to call Molly Hooper. I do not want her coming here in my condition!"

"Come on, Sherlock. She's going to be angry when she finds out that you're hurt, and no one's informed her. And I've seen her angry…"

"As have I, John," Sherlock said, rubbing his cheek. "But I can't see her like this!"

"Look, mate, she's put up with your abuse for years. She's always forgiven your terrible behavior, and deductions, even without the excuse of pain medications with psychotropic effects…"

"No, John! Under no circumstances are you to inform Molly of my injury. I will deal with her anger once I get home. And am off medication. And am wearing body armor!"

Later that evening, actually night, as she was working a late shift, Dr. Molly Hooper finally made her way out of St. Bart's, on her way to the tube stop, and home. She picked up a paper to read on the way, and had settled comfortably into her seat, when, perusing said tabloid, she noticed a small article on page four recounting how famous boffin detective Sherlock Holmes had been stabbed while attempting to apprehend a felon. She immediately was on her mobile to one John Watson.

"What hospital is he in, and why wasn't I informed?"

"Calm down, Molly. He's going to be fine. He's had surgery to repair his liver…"

"His liver? Again? Does that thing have a target painted on it?"

"Not one that showed up on x-ray, Molly…"

"Very funny, John. Now tell me where he is before a paint a target on you!"

It was only a short time later that Molly Hooper, having shown her credentials as a physician, was granted after hours admission to the injured detective's hospital room. She looked down at the man she adored as he slept, perhaps a bit fitfully. He must still be in some pain, she thought. Molly didn't want to wake him if that was the case, she she just sat in the chair next to his bed, and reached for his hand. But, despite her best intentions, her slightest touch was enough to wake him.

"Molly, I was hoping you would stay away…"

It was hard for Molly to hide the hurt in her eyes. "No, no, no, don't look at me like that!", the half asleep, and filter-challenged, detective said in a low voice. "You don't understand. You never understand…"

"I try to, Sherlock. But you can be very difficult…"

"I know, Molly. But I…"

"What's the matter? Are you okay?"

"Maybe I have a head injury?"

"You don't have a head injury, Sherlock. I checked your chart. Why do you ask? Do you have pain in your head? Should I call…"

"I love you so much, Molly. And you've never guessed. How come you can read me so well about some things, but you've missed that entirely? Oh, god, here I go again…"

"Sherlock, could the doctors have missed a head injury?" Molly said with some concern, and a lot of confusion. But when she ran her fingers through his hair, looking for bumps and contusions, she found nothing.

"It's the medication, Molly. The new pain meds."

"Your pain meds are making you think you love me, Sherlock?"

"Don't be stupid, Molly! Sorry! You're not stupid. You're brilliant, and beautiful, and brown-eyed. Three b's. I like bees. I love them, in fact. But not as much as I love you!" Sherlock smiled at himself, feeling a little helpless in the face of his chemically induced overindulgence in a long overdue bout of honesty. "By the way, could you put your fingers back in my hair? That feels even better than when Mummy does it. Or you could put them anywhere else you want, Molly. That might feel even better." Then, regaining his train of thought, which had derailed as soon as soon as her fingers made their way through his curls, he continued, "The medication doesn't make me think I'm in love with you, Dr. Hooper. It just removes my filters. And you have lovely hair, Molly. I love the way it hangs about your shoulders. Your creamy white shoulders. Oh, god!"

"So, Sherlock, you're not making this up? You really are in love with me?" Molly was currently examining the label on the medication dripping into the detective's body.

"Yes," he said quietly, as if afraid to say more.

"And you're not going to forget all about this conversation when this stuff wears off?"

"I very much doubt it, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me, for better or worse." Sherlock now buried his head in his pillow.

"Better or worse, eh? Wanna go for 'in sickness or in health'?"

"Oh, god, Molly. This isn't fair, you know? No filters, remember? I love you, I want you, I want to make pretty little brown-eyed babies with you. I want to raise bees. I love bees, have I mentioned that?"

"Sherlock, I'm up for most of that, but we'll have to see about the bees, okay?"

"Molly, I want to have sex with you right now, but I think that just might kill me!"

"Well, we'll hold off on that, then, shall we? "

"But not for long. I don't want to wait very long, Molly. In the meantime, could you climb into bed with me? On the side opposite my liver, please? They say love hurts, but there's no need to tempt fate, is there?"

So Molly Hooper climbed into the hospital bed with the rather delicate detective, careful not to jar his surgical dressing. She had already made a note of the name of that particular pain medication, for possible future reference. Sherlock wrapped one arm around her, and kissed her as passionately as a drowsy mind and a skewered liver would allow, and she rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as they both drifted off to sleep.

And that's the way his brother, and mother, and father found them the next morning.


End file.
